


Scene of the Crime

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In terms of, Mild Gore, Not in-progress violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: It’s another public toilet, and there’s blood everywhere. It’s sprayed up the walls, turning tiles unpleasantly pink and polka-dotted, and pools in sickly red-brown puddles on the floor.“Mind where you step, Sergeant.” DeBryn is crouched next to what remains of the body. “It’s a little slippery.”





	Scene of the Crime

It’s another public toilet, and there’s blood everywhere. It’s sprayed up the walls, turning tiles unpleasantly pink and polka-dotted, and pools in sickly red-brown puddles on the floor. It’s like a scene from the kind of horror film that Peter avoids because they veer too close to what he might one day come across on the job. 

Today, that day has come.

“Mind where you step, Sergeant.” DeBryn is crouched next to what remains of the body. “It’s a little slippery.”

Peter swallows hard and tiptoes across. “Know who it is?” he asks briefly, clamping his mouth shut again. 

“Wallet,” DeBryn says. “But I’d get some gloves if I were you. There’s a spare pair in there.” He points at his medical bag, placed neatly in a rare patch of clear floor. Peter stares at it for a second, before picking his way over. Suddenly, DeBryn looks up, eyes wide. “Morse isn’t with you, is he?”

“Outside.” Peter’s not paying much attention, too focused on avoiding… everything. “Interviewing the guy who found…” it doesn’t seem right to call the remains ‘it’, but ‘him’ also seems inaccurate at this point. He leaves the sentence unfinished.

“Well go stop him!” Peter looks up shocked, and DeBryn frowns. “If he steps in here I’ll have another body to clean up and I’ve got my hands quite full enough with this one.”

It’s both a good point, and it gives him a reason to leave. He about-faces, breathing the fresh outside air steadily to calm his stomach. God, its like day one on the job again. The scent of cut grass and damp earth make him realise that underneath the usual, the toilet had a distinctive coppery aroma.

Morse goes to step around him, and Peter stops him with a hand to the chest. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t.” He pushes Morse's shoulder, walking him backwards in a strange parody of a dance, until the spring sunshine falls on them both.

“Jakes-” 

Morse is working himself up into a proper snit, but Peter can’t honestly handle this right now. “Morse,” he pleads. “Don’t. You don’t need to see that.”

“I’m a police officer-“

“So am I.” He feels a bit funny, actually. The air and sunshine aren’t helping as much as he thought. His brain flashes back to the scene and his stomach turns. Good job he missed breakfast. His hand clenches where it rests on Morse’s suit jacket.

“Jakes-”

He shakes his head. “Don’t, Morse,” he mumbles. The grass is very green. Focus on the grass.

“Jakes?”

The grass. Look, there’s a ladybird. 

Oh God, the ladybird is red, red like –

“Peter!”

He releases his hand in a rush, just realising the death grip he had on Morse. Not becoming of a sergeant. But… if he’s holding on, Morse can’t go in there. And Morse can’t see that, they’d be scraping him off the floor.

Oh God, that floor, it’s covered in – if Morse goes arse over head he’ll be covered in – 

He reaches out and twists his fingers in Morse’s jacket again.

“Okay, I’m not going in.” They’re walking away – either Morse is leading him or he’s just walking off, but Peter is coming too because he’s not letting go. But they’re heading away from the toilet block, so its all fine. There’s a bench, next to a rubbish bin, with weeds breaking through cracks in the pavement and just beginning to flower. Morse sits, and Peter sits too.

“It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. Not for that man in there. But here, maybe here it’s okay.

“You looked quite green for a second there.”

Green like the grass.

“More normal now though.”

Normal. Yes. God, he needs a cigarette. He drops Morse’s jacket to rifle through his own pockets, and comes up with a packet and lighter. It takes three tries, hands a bit wobbly in a way he hopes Morse will take as nicotine withdrawal, but eventually the flame catches and the smoke sears away any lingering cloy of blood and death. He takes deep pulls, feeling it clear his lungs.

Morse stands up, and Peter almost reaches out to him again. He covers it with a twitch, and an elaborate raise of cigarette to mouth. 

“I’m just – Thursday.” Morse shoves his hands in his pockets and Peter nods, like he doesn’t care at all, even though his eyes track Morse as he walks away. He stops near Thursday, but there’s a light breeze and it carries their voices.

“Morse.”

“I’ve been banished. Sergeant’s orders.”

“That bad?”

He shrugs. “Suppose so.”

“Well, go get Jakes, we’ll- “

“No, sir.” Thursday looks at Morse in surprise, and Peter groans inwardly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

There’s a pause, in which Peter stares steadily at the cracks in the concrete and the way the breeze ruffles a dandelion flower, like he can’t hear them. He should be getting up. He should be insisting that he’s fine, that Morse is the delicate one and he’s made of sterner stuff. But if he does that he’ll have to go back inside. And then he’s not sure he’ll be okay. He really doesn’t want to collapse on that floor.

And he’s tired.

“Marcus Townsend,” says a new voice; DeBryn, poking his head out of the door and waving a mostly wiped-clean wallet. Thursday takes it with his fingertips and a grimace. 

“Thanks Doctor. I’ll finish up here, then, you two go and see what you can find out about Mr Townsend.”

Morse nods, and walks back past their bench, slowing slightly to allow Peter to stand and catch up on legs that are getting used to supporting him again. He rolls down the windows of the Jag when they get in, and as Morse pulls away the spring air swirls around them like milk mixing in hot tea. The smoke from Peter’s second cigarette drifts away, and the steady thrum of tires on road leeches the tension from his spine.

Right. He flicks open his notebook. Marcus Townsend. 

They’ve got a job to do.

**Author's Note:**

> So... did I surprise anyone by having Peter be the one needing looking after? :D There are so many good faintingflower!Morse fics out there that I thought I'd even the scales a little.


End file.
